Snowfall
by northernlamplights
Summary: Elsa and Anna- who live in a shabby apartment with their drunkard father- cope with their ever-deteriorating situation. Elsanna. Triggers: Incest, depression, self-harm, underage alcoholism, abuse, character death, suicidal themes.
1. 14-07

Anna: 17; Elsa: 20

Anna's POV.

Mid-January, 2014.

My eyes shift through the falling snowflakes, resolve to focus on one until it reaches the ground, then find another to focus on.

This fails to keep my mind off of what lies inside of my apartment whenever I get back from my walk in the frost.

These aren't spoiled, gated apartments. They're the ones that home the interesting people who can't find their families after getting back from Afghanistan. They're also the home to the people who are avoided even at the food banks I see them at. I mean, I'm sure they could be nice, but I've been told to avoid them. More like commanded. I guess my family is a little protective of me, when they aren't busy actively ignoring me like a small mosquito bite.

A snowflake lands on my cheek. It both soothes and stings, and it isn't because it's cold. I spit my gum out onto a pile of snow. I watch as it melts the snow. It's so cold out my gum steams like my breath for a second. But the gum cools.

I continue walking towards my door. The number 14-07 hangs by the door like a marker for a jail cell. I slowly unlock the door and walk in.

The rank scent of charred tobacco floats in the air like a ghost. Accompanying the smell come the angry sounds of of my Dad and sister. They sound like dogs barking at each other. They're getting just about as much done as dogs barking at each other would- that is, not much at all. It never changes, yet I always end up thinking it will at the end of the day.

I don't really hear Mom talking any more. She's over there, on the couch, trying her best to not get involved any more.

Dad redirects his attention towards me, demanding I tell him where I was. He ignored my tearful sister, who slipped into our room. My nails dig into my palms. I wanted to yell him. He made Elsa cry, _again._ But I say I was around. My stomach growls loudly, and he demands to know again, louder, his face puffing up like a big red balloon. _So that's why I was never too keen on balloons, _I mused tiredly. They always seemed like a waste of rubber to me, I guess.

I answer again, this time telling him how I just went to the grocery store, and came back empty handed because they didn't have what I wanted. He continues to yell until I give myself leave and take it, and closing the bedroom door behind me, I sat with my sister in our dark room.

She's three years older than I am but is still too young to drink without getting a talk from the cops, at 20 years of age. Despite this fact, she's holding a bottle of Dad's least favorite liquor in her hands when I see her sitting on our bed. He never checks his stock for that garbage. She doesn't give me a glance as I closed the door behind me, and she takes a swig of her drink. Her eyes were fixed on the window.

I turn off the small light on our desk and finish her sloppy job of opening the curtains so we can watch the wintry scene outside our window. She asks me if I remember the first time we saw mom smashed, and the way she nonsensically rolled words out of her mouth like a broken record. "Yeah," I say, and refuse the bottle when she knocks my arm with it. She looks at the half drained bottle, then puts it down.

She shakes her head. I can tell she wants to talk about the fight with Dad. I ask her how her bruises are. She doesn't reply, but she picks the bottle up again, taking another deep gulp.

I'm glad she at least acknowledges me. I don't need her words, I just need her. After the last five or so years of her ignoring me, the small conversations she engaged me with about three months ago has more than filled my need for her company. I didn't expect much from her, but she's been trying her best to be there for me since then.

I remember the first days she'd talk to me. When I'd ask her something about the bruises from Dad, physical and mental, and she would either get really loud or really quiet depending on her mood. Now it's always quiet when it's just us.

"Let's promise to _do_ better than Mom, and _be_ better than Dad," I say.

She opens the window up, letting the frosty chill in and the bottle out, tipping it upside down. "Cheers to that."


	2. The Beginning of the Descent

Thank you for the review, Kris6! Seriously, it was written better than my story! It means a lot to me that you put a lot of thought into it, so I hope I won't let you down with my story. And just a heads up, the chapters are probably going to fluctuate in size. And this chapter is a bit of a mess. I tried cleaning it up, but I don't know about it...

(Seriously, I freaking love reviews. Positive, negative, constructive, destructive. I eat that shit up.)

Trigger warning: Panic attack. Basically in every chapter of this story will be every trigger ever. Just a reminder.

Anna's POV.

February, 2014.

"'Kay, Anna, see you after the weekend." Kristoff waves at me as he hops into his rust-ridden truck. I wave, but he doesn't see. He's busy plowing through the snowy, partially empty after-school parking lot with his chained tires by the time I even lift a hand. And then he's gone.

It's colder today that usual. The ice is thicker. I'll have to watch my step on the way home from school.

On the walk home, I reminisce over the days when I first started talking to Kristoff a year ago, when I still didn't know him very well and would get worried when he'd pull crazy stunts in his truck. I gave it all up when I met his adoptive parents. They're... quirky. His mother is a psychiatrist. She specializes in romance. His father, being a psychologist in the same category, also holds a side-job as a snow plower. He drives up the mountain passes and plows, and taught Kristoff everything he knows.

Maybe he could teach me how to drive someday. Of course, It'll be far in the future, unless I'm planning on keeping it a secret from Dad.

Seemingly without any reason whatsoever, Dad won't let Elsa and I learn how to drive- well, I guess that isn't really true. He offered to teach me once, but I refused. When he asked why, I told him it was because it wasn't fair of him to teach me and refuse to teach Elsa, especially when he wouldn't tell me why. He hasn't talked to me about driving since. I don't think he would even let me learn from someone else. It just isn't a conversation I'm interested in having right now, I guess.

I still don't know why he was so crazy about not letting Elsa drive. Or do anything, really. He's always barking at Elsa about not going to college, about how she'll fail and put us all into debt. Among other things. Elsa won't tell me, either. It's like he spends all day every day preparing for when Elsa comes home from work to insult her.

I almost laugh at the mental image of him at a desk, pen and paper, whipping up formal insults to give Elsa when she gets home.

But I don't laugh. Normally, I try to find the humor in the worst of situations to make it through, but there isn't anything even remotely funny about Dad's campaign against his own eldest daughter. He does it like he's scared of her or something, and trying to keep her in her place.

My feet crunch through the side-swept snow from the street on the sidewalk. Kicking a larger clump out of my way, I can't help but think about how Mom and Elsa were the only ones with solid jobs, keeping the four of us afloat. And that's from working at Walgreens, Fred Meyer's, Walmart's and an independently owned janitorial part time, between just the two of them. Dad's the only one in the family who learned how to drive, so he drops off and picks up Mom to and from work. But the rest of the time, he's a full time drunkard. At least he times his drunkenness so he isn't driving Mom and Elsa to work smashed that often anymore. But it isn't like they have a choice. It isn't like we're along a bus route or anything.

I dig my gloved hands deeply into my pockets. Dad still finds it in him to talk that way to them, as though Elsa and Mom are both so... so _low _to him. It makes me feel sort of ill. I walk the rest of the way home, and realize at my door that I'm almost at the verge of tears. I swallow. I know I'm walking back into, not my home, but a cage owned by my father.

I hit my head with my hand over and over. I can't be thinking this way. I can't be thinking about this, just gotta stay positive. I just need to keep out of his way until we move out. Gotta move out. I'll leave. I'm going to get away with Elsa. It'll be fine, it'll be _fine._ No, no, _no_, no, no, it won't stop, it won't ever stop, it won't go away... I can't breathe... Need to get away, just get away, _GET AWAY-_

My hands are shaking, and my eyes flit back and forth. No matter how fast I breathed, the air felt like water in my lungs; the air is thick and useless. My heart is beating through my chest. I vigorously shake my head, and try to quickly remember what I researched on the school computers about anxiety attacks. I was supposed to... what was it, quick, _remember! _That's right! I start to breathe deeply, fighting to keep it, then release it in a slow, albeit hiccoughy breath through my pursed lips in a quiet hum. Repeating this several times, I began to feel my lungs absorbing the oxygen. Breathe, Anna. Just breathe, damn it.

I sat on the stairs leading to our unit on the second floor, rocking myself back and forth, panting. I clench my jaw until it aches, and tightly hold my knees to my chest.

No. I _cannot_ afford to be having panic attacks now. If anyone finds out, they'll probably make me go to a professional therapist or something. Not enough money. I focus on a conversation Elsa and I had the day after the time she promised me to stop drinking, pouring her bottle outside.

_ "So, Anna? What do you think?" Elsa asked timidly. _

_ I didn't know what to say. Leave our home here? Together? "I... won't Dad find out?"_

_ "Not if you don't tell him, he won't. And I really don't think that will be much of an issue." She reasons. "I'll have enough in a few months, if you save up too. We can move out, and never look back." Her eyes were so full of hope for the future. _

_ I wasn't sure, still. But a dreadful though came to mind, and it formed on my lips before I could process it- "But what about Mom?" What would happen to her if there wasn't anyone else to take hits from Dad when he was so gone, he didn't know the difference between family and punching bags? _

_ Elsa was quiet for some time. She laid on her back, the mattress creaking even under what little weight she had. I adjusted so I wouldn't dip into her side of our queen sized bed. "I don't know." _ _ I guess even Elsa didn't have the answers to everything._

_ She sat up."But we can't tell her, Anna." Elsa held a horrified expression, as though her own words were as grotesque to her as they were to me. And I nodded, with the same expression. _

_We both knew that if we planned to do anything against Dad, she would probably tell him. She was just too scared of him. We could never know for sure, but we both knew we couldn't risk getting caught. _

_ We were going to leave Mom behind in the clutches of the monster we called 'Dad'._

_I've never had such a clear understanding of the word 'conflict' before. The dark bags under Elsa's eyes told the same story. _

_I closed my eyes, burying my face in my hands. I heard cloth shifting, and felt... and felt arms around me._

_It had been about five years since the last time Elsa's really, really touched me. Not just an accidental brush of the hand or a bump of the shoulder, but a meaningful embrace. And in that moment, I finally knew she wasn't going to leave me. She was there to stay._

_I finally let the tears welling in my eyes fall, rolling down in plenty. I cried in Elsa's arms until I was hiccuping uncontrollably. I felt like we were leaving Mom to die. I knew Dad wouldn't go that far, but it was a betrayal none the less. I think Elsa cried, too, but I wasn't sure._

I have the promise of a life of freedom with my sister to meditate on. I just have to think about that, and imagine Elsa's arms around me when I start to have an attack. I look at my wristwatch. I've been out here for almost a half-hour. No wonder I'm so cold, even in my raggity snow gear.

It takes a couple of tries for my still-trembling hands to unlock the door.

Stepping in, I mentally prepare to walk past Dad, who I'm guessing will be seated on the couch, and into my room. Elsa won't be home, yet, so I'll get some homework done before she gets home.

But there the blonde is, on the couch where Dad would be any other day. And, _god, _it's freezing in here. I wonder if the window was left open or something. I frown, knowing we won't have enough wood to burn for the night- we ran out a few nights ago, and the prospect of using the heater is a pipe dream. We haven't used a heater in years.

I scanned the living Dad isn't anywhere to be seen.

Wait a minute.

Elsa's home.

_Elsa's home during her shift._

"You weren't," I begin to say, placing a hand on the side of the couch to avoid collapsing. Even with my sister right there, the panic was coming back. "You weren't laid off were y-"

"Anna." Elsa interrupts, nearly leaping from the couch. Before I can move or fall, I find myself collected in her arms. "Anna, you're back."

I melt into her embrace. "Oh, Anna," She whispers. I dropped my bag. There is no worry left in me about her job, where Dad is, or what we're going to do if the price of gas rises again. It's just Elsa and I. I lifted my arms, tightening them around her waist as she squeezed her arms around my neck.

But it only lasts for a second. She's shaking. The worry is back. I finally backed away just enough to see her face. She's pale, and her hands, still on my shoulders, are trembling. Her eyes are dark and puffy. Had she been crying? "What happened?" I ask, steeling myself for the answer.

Apparently, she has already decided I'm not prepared for whatever it is she's about to say. She leads me to the front of the couch. "You should sit." We both sat, the creak of the couch deafening.

She takes another shaky breath. Bites her lip. She looks back and forth. She opens her mouth to speak finally, but nothing comes out.

I don't really know what to do. I've never really seen this behavior before, from anyone, never mind from my sister. I shed my torn winter jacket and gloves quickly, and take her hands in mine. God, she's cold as ice. "What happened?" I ask again, rubbing her hands with my thumbs to give even the slightest bit of extra warmth.

Her eyes finally stilled and found mine. One last shaky breath. "Anna, Dad and..." She swallowed again, "Mom, they were in a wreck."

I'm completely winded. She takes my quickly-numbing hands in hers this time, holding onto me like I'll make the world stop spinning so fucking fast.

"Mom didn't make it, Anna. She's gone."


	3. Conditional Apathy

Thank you for your reviews, everyone!

And than you again, kris6. I always write one chapter ahead of schedule, so I'm probably not going to change anything big, like you said. But the details you've been bringing up in your comments have really helped me write! I didn't even think about what would happen to their Mom's stuff before that, so thank you!

And I did as much research on how this works as I could. Sorry if nothing that happens here would happen in real life.

* * *

Late February, 2014.

I remember watching the funeral of Bruce Wayne's parents in _Batman Begins_ at Kristoff's house a long time ago, and wondering aloud at how much it would cost.

_Kristoff, being the smart-mouthed ass that he is, simply replied that it didn't matter because he was sort of a multi-billionaire. "As if it mattered how much he was spending. His parents are fucking dead, Anna," Kristoff laughed, then poked fun at me for wondering such sideline questions. "What you really should be asking is, 'how much would therapy cost?'"_

I sit in the back offices of my high school, waiting for one of the school counselors to call me to their office.

_Tick. Toc. Tick. Toc._

It's droning. Not the clock, specifically, but life. Time itself seemed to be dragging it's feet recently. Just slow enough for me to study every gray detail, but fast enough to make me feel like I'm drowning in events. I close my eyes and succumb to the drone.

"Anna Hersker?" I hear a male voice say, as though calling a patient. Well, I guess I am his patient, now.

One of my teachers suggested that I do grief counseling. It's offered free at the school for, as he put it, _"unfortunate students like you."_ They're worried about my grades dropping. I'm worried, too- I've been running out of motivation to do my homework, or even wake up to go to school. Or breathe, now that I think about it.

I promised Mom a long time ago that I would complete high school. I think I was eleven, and I remember feeling like dying. Everyone bullied me at middle school because of the weird white streak that mysteriously appeared in my otherwise red hair one day, and Elsa had just began ignoring me like the plague I was beginning to believe I was.

_ Mom took me aside to talk to me about my dropping grades. "Honey," Mom said. Dad wasn't home at the time, so she was sober as she spoke."Whatever decisions you make, I will always love you." I remember smiling, basking in her warm comfort. _

_ But she continued, "But, Anna, will you stay in school for me, and do the best you can until you graduate high school?" I agreed, but asked why. "When I was your age- a little older- I thought I could go through life just fine without completing school. I was wrong, Dear. I'm sorry."_

I stand and make my way to Mr. Isle's room. "Hi, Mr. Isles." I greet him.

The therapist welcomes me with a warm handshake. "Please, call me Hans. Just Hans is fine. Can I call you Anna?" I nod.

He straightens his maroon polo shirt and casually leans against his desk, arms crossed. I guess this is supposed to make me feel comfortable, less formal. "Make yourself at home. Take a seat, if you'd like, Anna." He gestures to the seats against the wall of the small office.

I set my backpack on a neighboring seat and lean back. "So, um," I find my voice meandering. "Nobody told me how this was supposed to go, so... what do I do?"

"Well," He says, finally getting up and sitting in the comfy-looking chair behind his desk. "That's up to you. Can you start by telling me how you're feeling?"

Way to start out in the deep end of the pool. Not even sarcastic. I'm actually really stumped, and stutter, "I... W-well..."

"It's okay if you want to tell me about not feeling anything. The absence of feeling is as important as feeling." Hans says. He scratches one of his fluffy sideburns. The sound makes me a little uncomfortable. I focus on my hands and talk.

"Yeah, I guess I haven't really been feeling that much. It's almost like... like I died with Mom. Well, I didn't die, of course. But, you know," I ramble in a monotone voice. "I used to talk like a normal person, but now I sound like a, well, a zombie. That's what they're calling me, you know? The other students have really taken a liking to calling me 'Zombie', recently."

He then asks me a couple of questions about who was calling me that. I told him the truth: it was a widespread nick name, so I couldn't really blame it on anyone in particular. He frowned, and went on to tell me to report to him if any of the students went beyond name-calling to harass me.

"Well, Kristoff- my best friend- has been really supportive. But the only one I've really been able to really feel anything around has been my sister."

"That's good to have family close in a time such as this," Hans says, nodding. "Good, good. And what of your father?"

"What about him?" I shoot back a little too sharply.

Hans smoothly replies, "Has he been helping you cope?"

I try to count the ways on my fingertips, and end up empty. Hans must have noticed my silence, and tried to prompt me. "How has your father been since the accident?"

I try not to scoff and fail. "How has _he _been? He's suddenly grown a conscious. His right leg was crushed up to the knee in the accident, and the doctors say he'll have a permanent limp, even after the cast and crutches are removed." I cough a dry laugh. Hans stays silent, and writes something on his notepad. "He thinks that he has been given some sort of... of _awakening_ or some crap like that. He's trying to get a job now that we're on a slippery slope, and he thinks getting a job will save Elsa and I. I think he believes he'll finally be the father to us he was supposed to be all these years, that he'll be a _hero._ But he's wrong." I sniff. "The debt is too steep." He hands me a tissue, which I snatch with a thankful nod.

We're going to have to pull some heavy loans if we're going to eat anytime soon without help from the local rescue mission. Funerals are no cheap business. I've spent all this week mourning my Mother, and now all that is left is a hole in my heart filled with a little bit of worry. The debt is going to be as steep as the icy hill Mom and Dad crashed at the bottom of. Even sober, Dad didn't have any control over the vehicle as they slid, gaining momentum, until they spun into a thick evergreen, totaling the car, crushing Dad's leg, and ending Mom's life.

"Why do you think he's trying so hard for you two?" He prompts again, this time less subtly. I get the gist he's trying to get me to say. 'Because he loves us,' or some warm family stuff like that.

But what comes out is what I've really been thinking since the accident, but hated myself too much to acknowledge, "Because he wishes he died in that accident instead of Mom. He wishes it as much as I do."

* * *

After that colossal waste of time, I collect my books from my locker and make my way to the front doors. The only thing I really got done in there was find out how much of a monster I've become due to this ugly hatred I have for Dad, and reminded myself how much I really fucking miss Mom, even when she spent all of her time at work and was drunk the rest of the time. I stayed in his office for another twenty minutes just crying, then spent another five minutes in a bathroom washing my face. The cool water helped my red, puffy eyes.

It's after school, and only the sports teams and members of the various school clubs were left moseying about the school and parking lot. Nobody made eye contact with me. When they weren't busy calling me childish nick names like 'Zombie', they were actively ignoring me. It was like they were afraid that if they acknowledged me, their mothers would die like mine.

Keeping my head down, I put on my gloves and coat, and walk out the front doors. "Anna!" I hear a familiar voice call.

Elsa is here, standing right before me. Despite my confusion regarding why she's here, the first thing I notice is that she's wearing a flimsy long-sleeved shirt and her thin work slacks in five-degree weather. "What are you wearing?" I find myself asking before I realized I was in deep shit. The way she's looking at me somehow reminds me of the way Darth Maul looks at the Jedi in _The Phantom Menace,_ dark and furious. I shake my head, suddenly resenting the day I let Kristoff talk me into a six-movie-long Star Wars Marathon.

But the fury in her face quickly subsides into an exasperated look of worry. She takes me by the shoulders and shakes me with each word, "Where were you?"

"Wait, what? I thought I told you," I trail off, trying to remember. Didn't I tell her I was going to be home late today?

She let go of me. "No, no you didn't 'tell me' anything." Elsa says, rolling her eyes at me. "I've been worried sick for the past _hour!_"

Shit. And it wasn't as though she could've called to make sure I was alright or anything- we don't even have a home phone, never mind cell phones.

"I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry! I didn't mean to get you worried like this. I was just busy doing homework in the library, and I needed to go get something I forgot from my locker." I tell her as much of the truth I am willing to share at the moment. I don't want her to know about the counseling with Hans. I'm not sure why, but I feel like if I tell her I'm seeing someone for help, it'll paint the false picture that her presence and comfort isn't enough for me.

But my words to put her suspicions to rest. She lets out a sigh, and her shoulders roll forwards a little. Without another word, she gathers me into her arms, and presses her lips against my temple.

Yeah. She's enough.

I hear some people whispering as they pass us. I look over Elsa's shoulder, and see the students walking to their cars casting glances at us.

"C'mon, Elsa," I say, ignoring the whispers. "Let's go home."

* * *

"And how much for the grave marker?" I heard Elsa's voice on the other side of the door, asking the right questions like she always does. She must have purchased a toss-away phone. The cost has been adding up, using the street quarter phones with all these calls we've had to make about the arrangements with Arendelle funeral home. "No, thank you. No service. Just cremation, grave marker, and a slot in the field. Yes. Mhmm. Alright, thank you. We'll be there to pick up the ashes tomorrow. Thank you again." Her voice doesn't tremble. She sounds like one of those automatic voice message ladies. It definitely doesn't sound like someone preparing their own mother's funeral.

There's a moment on the other side of the door that is so quiet, it makes me scared. I stand back from the door when I hear her footsteps finally emerges, the rings under her eyes darker than mine.

She ghosts past me, and lands on the couch. She rubs her forehead, as though it will wash herself of this madness.

Dad's out at therapy for his right leg. He's commutes by bus and walks with crutches now. He's been pretty quiet since the wreck. Saying half as many words, and smoking twice as many cigarettes. He's had to drop a bit of his alcohol, though. He's job hunting. Can't go into an interview looking like he has the last decade, so he's clean shaven again, and got a haircut.

One morning, I saw him prepare for an interview, when he thought I was still asleep. He straightened his stainless button-up shirt and took a second to give himself one last look-over before taking off. He met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

I had to hold back a laugh, and crept back inside Elsa's and my room. If anyone had the weight of the world on their shoulders, it was Elsa.

_He _wasn't working two jobs and preparing for college.

_He _wasn't making the arrangements for Mom's funeral.

And, worst of all, _he_ was the one who lost control of the car that night.

We were able to sell the car for parts, all together gaining us about seven-hundred. It's helped us so far with Dad's leg, and we're going to need every last cent of it to get us out of this... whatever it is. And since Dad was the lawfully recognized spouse, he received the rights to Mom's bank account and items. He's been too reluctant to move forward and do anything with her items, though, as though her memory lies in her boxes. He has been using the money to cover most of the funeral expenses.

I step over Mom and Da- no, just Dad's floor mattress and drop on the couch near Elsa, wincing at that damned creak again. I brought my knees to my chest, and released a sigh I didn't know I was holding.

"Eulogy." I whisper. It's loud enough for her to hear. Elsa rubs her temples again. I wonder at how there's still skin on her forehead.

What are we even going to say about Mom, anyways? That we miss her? Then what?

In all likelihood, there were only going to be three or four people meeting us at the grave site for the unofficial funeral. Just some of her co-workers, and maybe our Aunt and Uncle if we can find their damned phone number somewhere. We were just going to say some words, then... I don't know, stay there for a while? _Batman Begins_ cuts out to the next clip after the funeral scene. Who knows what people do after a funeral.

Elsa doesn't say anything. She scoots herself across the couch until her hip bumps mine and rests her head on my shoulder. I lean my head on hers. Her unruly hair smooths down as I run my fingers over it.

I look at the clock on the wall. She has twenty minutes before she has to take off to work again.

Returning her gesture from earlier, I let my lips rest against her forehead. It's cold, but I don't really question it anymore. I'm beginning to get that maybe she just has a lower body temperature than mine. I think they said something about that in biology, right?

I knew I probably shouldn't but I just wanted to kiss her forehead over and over and hold her like this forever. Never host the funeral, never have to go back to school. To stay here, just the two of us, would be great. Except less hungry. To stay here, plus some food or chocolate. Actually, scratch that. Just chocolate.

Eventually, though, I release her with a groan, and she replied by telling me she'll be home before I knew it. After I locked her out, I take the lid off one of Mom's boxes. Two towers of boxes are lined in the corner. Mom said it was old wedding stuff, and that she really ought to throw it out, but never did. She never let me play in it, even when I begged for dress up stuff. It would always put her in a bad mood, so I avoided mentioning the boxes from then on.

The dust I blow off an old teal photo album I took from the top box makes me cough. If I'm going to be at home while Elsa and even Dad were off working and looking for work, I might as well put myself to use. I work three days a week doing odd jobs at old people's homes, but the rest of the week is always boring and uneventful whenever I'm not hanging out with Kristoff, or Elsa when she's off work.

Well, today is certainly _not_ boring. Looking through the pictures, I see a young, well-trimmed Dad and a radiant, beautiful Mom dancing like a couple of happy fools in each others arms. Grandma on Mom's side was still alive at that time, and I also see some other family members we never really talked about in the background of a lot of the pictures.

I hope I can find their contact information somewhere in the boxes. I can't let Elsa conduct the entire funeral business by herself, so I'm going to see if I can take care of making sure the funeral will have people who loved her there. Mom would like that. When I was really young, Mom used to recall amusing stories about our family when she was small and unmarried. Now that I think back, she never really told me about what her early life with Dad was like.

I turn the page. I look at more pictures of my parents feeding each other cake, and laugh when I see Mom dancing with another man, probably a friend, with Dad sitting grumpily at a table.

But the photos on the next page confuse me. Mom and Dad were in a series of family photos, outside the church in their wedding attire. Smiling, they had Grandma on the left, and my uncle and pregnant aunt on the right. And between Mom and Dad was a young child of about three, her blond hair in a tiny braid tossed over her shoulder.

I... What?

I pull the photo from its plastic sleeve and bring it closer to my eyes.

There is no mistaking it, that's Elsa. Tiny Elsa, in her little blue dress and cheeky smile.

So... Elsa was born before Mom and Dad were married.

Oh.

* * *

An hour has passed since I found the photo. There were more photos of young Elsa that I found, confirming my suspicion of the identity of the child. I placed the album back into the box the way I found it, and I've been laying on my bed since then.

I guess nothing has changed in reality. But the fact that Elsa was born pre-maritally may have changed the circumstances of Mom and Dad's marriage. Was it a 'shotgun' marriage? Did they even love each other? Was that why they both would rather drink than deal with each other? And was that really why Dad seems to hate Elsa so much?

All these thoughts swirl around in my brain, mixing and churning until I can't tell two questions apart. I feel like I'm drowning in my own thoughts. And what if I'm wrong, and that girl was just the flower girl? No, that was definitely Elsa. I'd know those crystal eyes of hers anywhere.

And what, does Elsa know about any of this? Know why she's been treated so poorly by Dad all of these years?

It's eating me alive. I heard Dad come in and take a nap a while ago, but I can't exactly ask him. And it won't be for another five hours before Elsa's back home.

Deciding there isn't anything else to do, I grab my coat and gloves and sneak past Dad's sleeping form. I stop to glance at the box containing Mom's photo album, feeling as though it might leap from it's box and attack me. I shake my head, clearing out the ridiculous imagery playing before my mind's eye, and pray the cold air from my opening the front door won't wake him. It doesn't, and I head off towards the Walmart down the street, puffing in my gloved hands to retain any warmth. I've got to talk to Elsa before my imagination gets away from me.


End file.
